


Fuel a Pyre of Your Enemies

by Ink_Dancer



Series: Cowboy and Peril [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, i'm not kidding this one's fuckin sappy, kidnapping/torture, kinda messy/emotional and sappy as fuck, the torture's pretty mild by their standards and not "on-screen", we love the team as a family babes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Dancer/pseuds/Ink_Dancer
Summary: After the events of Norway, Illya and Napoleon are in love. Their little UNCLE team is solid, and Gaby loves them and their stupid gay antics. Then they get sent behind the Iron Curtain on a mission.It's fine, until Illya gets taken and hurt and Napoleon has to both rescue him and deal with being the one left behind for once.





	Fuel a Pyre of Your Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's "Nfwmb."  
Part 3 and final part of "Cowboy and Peril." This one absolutely cannot stand on its own, please go read the first two (in whatever order you please) before you read this.

UNCLE was a true team now. After their first few missions, they fell into routines together, adapting to lives lived entirely side by side.

The little trio traveled Europe and sometimes other places—Napoleon _relished_ dragging the two of them through Washington D.C. and New York City when they ended up in America—doing secret things and doing them well. 

Napoleon kept himself occupied to avoid his feelings for Illya, but he was pretty good at working around them. He spent time with Gaby (which was always a delight), and he hung out with Illya as best he could without confessing to him on the spot. He was doing pretty well, give or take the fact that he felt like he would burst with it every once in awhile. 

Then, of course, came Norway.

Norway changed everything. Napoleon didn't remember much of the first part, couldn't recall anything past falling into the coldest water he'd ever touched in his life. He remembered a vague scattering of images that must have been Illya pulling him to safety, but they weren't very clear in his mind. He did know that he'd gained a new, subtle fear of freezing water.

Once he woke up, everything changed very suddenly. The tension between Illya and him crystallized and then shattered, and suddenly they couldn't keep their hands off each other. It had been the best few hours of Napoleon's life, no contest. He always smiled when he remembered falling asleep on the couch on top of Illya, warm and safe.

Then they'd both almost been shot, but that was a minor detail. They made it out and back to Gaby, and Napoleon had finally gotten to do something he'd wanted to do for a long time: he'd gotten to kiss the living daylights out of Illya after both of them had almost died.

Nothing made you feel more alive than cheating death, except possibly celebrating it by sticking your tongue down the throat of the person you love. 

He felt so good, better than he ever had. He'd never loved somebody the way he loved Illya. They lost themselves in each other over the next couple of months, and even told Gaby after just four weeks. (She was not surprised. She had known since they came back to her in Norway. But she thanked them for trusting her and did her part to keep them safe, both in their personal lives and on the jobs they continued to do.)

Napoleon and Illya got more and more comfortable with each other, and things stayed more or less the same except for the fact that they slept together a lot and got overly worried about each other on tough missions. 

They were happy. Napoleon felt light even as they continued to dangerous things for a living. Things were _good_. 

What could go wrong?

After a year as a team, they had put a stop to the potential for nuclear war at least twelve times and halted too many international incidents to count. Napoleon didn't like to brag, even in his own mind, but he knew that they had saved a lot of lives.

They'd only had a few other breaks like Paris, all of them short, and few and far between. The geopolitical landscape was messy, and spies like them were hard to come by. He understood why Waverly kept them busy. He would have liked a vacation, though.

He felt like they were due, at this point, but Gaby popped into his hotel room in London the day after their most recent debrief, holding a folder and frowning. Napoleon sighed. He didn't like being this close to headquarters—he somehow felt like if they'd make their mission reports from far away, Waverly would forget to send them back out.

Illya came out of the bathroom when he heard Gaby's footsteps, clearly anticipating what was about to happen. "New mission?" he asked, crossing the room to meet them. 

He and Napoleon had been sharing hotel rooms since Norway. Nobody seemed to question it, and Gaby had expressed that she found it much more convenient to be able to routinely find them in the same place. Much easier, she claimed, except for when they were actively having sex, which she said she found more annoying than anything. (She'd only walked in on them twice, and Napoleon thought she had been a bit of a drama queen about it.)

Gaby put the folder down and sat across from Napoleon. "Yes. Waverly will be here soon."

"Do we get a break after this?" Napoleon asked. Illya sat down next to him on the couch, and he reflexively leaned his head into his shoulder. "I mean, I'm tired. We've been at it non-stop for like a month now."

"I actually do think we'll get a couple days off after this one," Gaby said, smiling softly at them as Illya wrapped his arm around Napoleon's shoulders to tuck him closer. "We can ask."

They relaxed for a few minutes before there was a knock at the door. Napoleon and Illya reflexively separated as Gaby got up to let Waverly in. They trusted Waverly enough to perform the tasks he assigned and know that he'd get them out alive, but not much more. Gaby supported this line of thinking, although she warned that someday it might become necessary to fill Waverly in.

Their handler came in with his own folder, and sat down without so much as a proper greeting. "There are rumors of another potential uprising in Hungary," he said, without preamble. "Unlikely to amount to anything, but the Soviets are on high alert, and they've ordered development of some kind of chemical weapon the likes of which haven't been seen in a civilian context." He clasped his hands together, looking deeply concerned. "The consequences of this usage on a civilian population could spur Western countries into outright conflict."

"So what do we do?" Gaby asked. She looked tense. In the year they'd been working together, they'd only gone behind the Iron Curtain three or four times. Napoleon knew that she hated it every time.

"The weapon is experimental," Waverly said, waving his hand a little flippantly. "It hasn't been built yet, and the plans have been sent to a Soviet compound just outside Budapest. The plan, according to my information, is to build it as a precautionary measure should another revolution arise."

"They squashed the last one pretty handily," Napoleon said. His chest felt a little tight. He wasn't some crazed McCarthy-ist American, but he found Soviet methods significantly repulsive.

Not that American methods were much better. He had to keep reminding himself of that.

Waverly made a face. "Don't ask me to explain the logic, I can't." He sighed. "This is a serious risk to a lot of civilians. I think an uprising is unlikely, but I believe that even if it _doesn't_ happen, this weapon could easily be used against the population, at the cost of many innocent lives."

They nodded along. This wasn't an uncommon backdrop for a mission of theirs, although Waverly didn't always harp so much on the consequences should they be unsuccessful.

Still, in the end, the mission boiled down to something simple. As was often the case, they were stealing something. 

The plane ride out was quiet. Getting into Soviet-controlled territory meant flying commercial and under aliases. They were going to be undercover from start to finish for this mission. Illya and Gaby sat together, posing as married couple, as per usual. Napoleon sat by himself three rows back and watched Illya's head over the tops of the seats.

* * *

When they landed, Napoleon felt another wave of foreboding crash over him. He was put on edge—something about actually being in the impact zone for the events they were trying to stop. 

They even rode in separate taxis to the hotel, Napoleon pretending not to know who his partners were. He didn't even look at them as they got into different cars headed in the same direction. 

When they got there, he checked in, also separately, and ended up in a room on the same floor as them but four doors away. It was a shabby little place, built in a Western style as an attempt to lure American tourists, but it had seen better days and higher attendance. Their floor was deserted, no tourists or any other guests in sight.

Still, Napoleon was careful about going over to see them, carrying a newspaper as if it had been delivered to the wrong room. A flimsy excuse, but better than nothing.

Illya opened the door when he knocked, ushering him in without even a questioning glance at the paper in his hand. Gaby was sitting on a love seat, knees up to her chest and her shoulders in a tight, rigid line.

Napoleon looked at Illya, worried, but Illya shook his head. He closed the door behind them and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Napoleon's temple, which made Napoleon's limbs loosen for the first time since they'd left London. "Surveillance tonight," he said. "Two hours, okay?" He aimed this mostly at Gaby, who nodded. She was frowning as she went over Waverly's files for at least the twentieth time. 

Illya and Napoleon sat near her, tangled up on the bed. She never seemed to mind what they did in the same room as her, so long as it stayed relatively innocent. She would sometimes snap at them to get a room, but often this was in jest. Now, she seemed to engrossed to care.

Napoleon rested his head on Illya's broad shoulder and tried to sleep, just a little. He wasn't sure what the night would hold for them, and he'd like to be prepared.

All too soon, they started gearing up. Napoleon mechanically took apart and reassembled his gun as they sat and discussed the general barebones of what they thought they were in for. "If we see a way in, we should go tonight," Gaby said, in an uncharacteristic show of recklessness.

Illya and Napoleon exchanged a fleeting glance. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," Napoleon said. "I think we should look for weaknesses tonight and tomorrow, and then see where we stand."

"If we waste too much time, they could successfully build this weapon," Gaby said, and despite her obvious anger, her voice stayed level.

"How long do you think it takes to build a weapon capable of putting down a revolt in one fell swoop?" Napoleon asked. "If it wasn't built when we left London, it won't be built in two days. We have the time to do this safely."

"Cowboy is right," Illya said, and Gaby made a soft scoffing noise but didn't protest further.

They ended up piling into their rental car, Gaby driving and Illya in the passenger seat. Napoleon laid flat in the back in case they were spotted, at least until they crossed city limits. 

The compound was a few miles into the suburbs, just twenty minutes from the hotel, gated and fenced in. It was a "compound" in the sense that there was more than one building, but there still weren't many. The outside buildings looked like mostly storage, and the main one was just massive. There were no guard towers, but there were cameras, and Gaby stopped the car a good distance away. "Shout if you see something," she said, turning the engine off.

Surveillance was boring. And, if anyone was being honest, it was definitely not a three-person job. But none of them were comfortable with leaving somebody behind, and they'd become such a close-knit group over the months that it felt strange to not have them all. 

They watched guard rotations come and go, with Illya timing them against his watch and writing down the increments. They clocked all the cameras, and Napoleon sketched an estimated map of their range and lines of sight and blind spots. The three of them got out of the car around midnight to make a few circles around the compound, trying to catch other points of entry or options. Gaby found a possible place to cut the fence, comparing it against Napoleon's camera map and finding that it was in a blind spot. 

"I want blueprints of the inside," Napoleon said, tapping a pen to his teeth as he fiddled with the blind spot map, drawing a box around Gaby's possible entry point. They all knew it was him who was going to be leading the infiltration, and he wanted to have a heads up of what he'd be running into.

"We'll work on that tomorrow," Illya said. He had binoculars out and was continuing to track everybody's movements. "The guards seem quite lax," he added. "Unconcerned."

"Movement on the compound itself is minimal," Gaby chipped in. "Not much going on, I don't think. At least not at night."

"Good news for us," Napoleon said.

When the sun started to come up, they drove away. They slept during the day, Illya and Napoleon in one room and Gaby in the other. Napoleon always slept better with Illya's solid warmth next to him. 

Then, in the evening, they got up to do it all again. This time, they went a little early, so they could catch the compound before it fell asleep for the night. Gaby once again parked far away, but only so she and Illya could get out. Napoleon took over the wheel and drove right on up to the gate. 

He was dressed in a suit, complete with a briefcase in the passenger seat. He was making this scheme up on the fly, so he was going for a look that was nondescript enough to go with whatever he decided to portray, but also was well-dressed enough to work. He also didn't want to look like a spy. His odds were slim of getting what he wanted, but looking like this, they were also slim toward him being shot on sight.

A guard came over with a heavy-looking gun and looked at him skeptically, then asked him a question in mangled Hungarian. It took Napoleon a moment of mental translation (his Hungarian was not good), but he grasped his question: _Who are you?_

"<<Budapest City Planning,>>" he said, joining him in the country's language. "<<Inspection.>>"

This was a stupid plan. Absolutely boneheaded. There was no way these grumpy Soviets with a giant building full of classified research and weapons would let him in to look around and explore. Napoleon was just tensing to have the weapon pointed at his head when the guard turned and waved, and the gate went up. 

_"I can't believe that worked,"_ Gaby said in his ear. Napoleon heard Illya chuckle. He himself was stunned.

He parked the car just inside the gate and was escorted into the main building. He memorized everything he saw, the layout of the buildings as they looked from inside the fence. They looked even more nondescript from here, and the Russian signs on them told him that they mostly served as storage for raw materials. The guards never went near them, clearly unconcerned about keeping them safe.

Inside the main building, it looked like the entrance to a dirty factory. The guard guiding him led the way up three flights of stairs while Napoleon looked around, getting a feel for the layout. He counted the offices they walked by, made a note of how many of them were actually occupied. Their destination ended up being the office of the director of the compound, a name that Napoleon figured he wouldn't need to know. He memorized it anyway: Maxim Petrov. 

Petrov was sitting at his desk, and he had a greasy smile that didn't reach his eyes. He gestured Napoleon into a seat across from him. "<<I was not aware there was an inspection scheduled,>>" he said in Hungarian, and right away Napoleon knew that plan was at least partially sunk.

Which was fine. He could adapt. "<<Sometimes they are a surprise,>>" he said, making his tone as apologetic as possible. "<<I do understand if it cannot be done today.>>"

This made Petrov preen a little bit, as if he got off on making poor city service workers feel bad for doing their jobs. "<<It cannot be done today, no. We are unprepared.>>"

Napoleon hemmed and hawed with him for awhile, going in circles about rescheduling and better communication methods from the city's offices. Napoleon did his best to make himself small compared to Petrov, make him feel like the big man in the conversation. Finally, he said that if possible, a copy of up-to-date blueprints could serve as a placeholder for an inspection, at least until a new one could be scheduled. Petrov smiled like he'd won, and gleefully handed up some rolled up blueprints. Then, with no further conversation, he ushered Napoleon back out of his office in the company of the guard.

The guard, who had not spoken to Napoleon at all and didn't break that habit now, led Napoleon out and back to his car. He watched Napoleon back out, and Napoleon could feel the back of his neck prickle under his gaze as he drove away.

He pulled up next to Illya and Gaby with a huge grin and the blueprints in one hand. "So, that went well."

"That was dangerous," Illya said immediately.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. They had discussed options before they left, and sure, Napoleon had improvised and it was a stupid plan, but it had _worked_. He said so.

"Napoleon's right," Gaby said, taking the blueprints and spreading them out on the hood of the car. She laid Napoleon's camera-blind-spot map on top of it in a blank space. "It was a risk worth taking. Now we know what we're facing, and we can actually do this."

"Tomorrow night," Napoleon said, keeping his tone light but cautioning. "We should keep tracking guard movements tonight, just to make sure we're really seeing patterns."

Gaby grunted a noncommittal response, but didn't argue. 

Napoleon spent the night poring over the blueprints, sitting on the hood of the car with the papers spilled across his lap. Illya sat in front of him on the ground, studiously watching the guards and continuing his notes. Gaby was sitting behind him, perched on the roof with her feet on the hood, chirping at Napoleon and making suggestions on his blueprint notations. It all felt strangely domestic.

Dawn started coming up, and they all piled back in the car. There would be less time to sleep today, but they unanimously decided to at least give themselves until midafternoon. And they did, although Napoleon and Illya got distracted for an hour or so before they got to that point. Napoleon got a nice mark on his collarbone from Illya's mouth. When he forced himself to get up at the end of the day, he pressed his thumb into it to get some feeling back into his limbs.

Illya watched him do it, already up and ready to go, with a knowing smirk on his face.

They met in Gaby's room (previously Gaby and Illya's room, but obviously no longer), and spread the blueprints out on the floor, along with Illya's notes and Napoleon's map. "So." Napoleon pointed at the weak spot Gaby had found. "That's my point of entry. I can cut the fence between guard rounds and slip in quick enough to not get caught." He pointed at Illya's list of guard routes and times. "I can go any of these times," he said, tapping a few.

"What about us?" Illya asked, his brow furrowed.

"Well, I don't think the guard timing is clean enough to get all of us in, especially building in enough time to cut the fence." Napoleon shrugged. "So I'm gonna do that, and come meet you guys here." He pointed to another blind spot on his map, this one a little more narrow than the first. "This camera blind spot is skinner, but you guys can slip it if you're careful. There's more time between guard passes over here."

"Okay." Gaby was worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, a habit she had when she was thinking. "Then what?"

Napoleon ran a hand across the blueprints. "So, inside, there's a huge factory and assembly line situation, which I think is more or less a front for whatever's going on in there. According to these blueprints, there are no less than six underground floors, all of which are housing labs. There's also twelve offices upstairs—I counted—but only five are occupied. I'm assuming they're not expecting a break-in or anything, so odds are the plans'll be pretty accessible." Napoleon sucked his cheek in thoughtfully. "Maybe in a safe in that asshole Petrov's office or something."

"So?" Illya frowned. "Are we going to explore all of those options? That will take hours."

"We're gonna split up," Napoleon said. "You and Gaby take the labs—more territory to cover, so having two of you makes it go faster—and I'll hunt through the offices."

"I'll go alone," Illya said immediately. "Not you. You go with Gaby."

Napoleon tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, so you can crack safes now? You can pick locks and do other sneak thief activities?"

Illya scowled. "I can pick locks," he said, a little reluctantly. But they both knew this was a lie, they both remembered Rome, where Napoleon had to pick two locks because Illya couldn't do it. 

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"Well, what are odds anybody will even be in the labs?" Illya asked, jutting his chin out bullishly. "Safety in numbers makes more sense on upper floors. You and Gaby go there, and I will go to the labs alone."

Napoleon looked up and made exasperated eye contact with Gaby—she just shook her head. "Fine, Illya. But if we don't find anything, we'll come join you on the lower floors."

Illya dipped his head in acquiescence, a tiny, satisfied smile on his face. _Oh, yes, you definitely won the argument by taking the lion's share of danger_, Napoleon thought. _I feel so safe_. Illya's protective (smothering) streak rankled him, a little. But only a little. And only sometimes. Like right now.

They set to work on equipment next, cleaning guns and refilling them with bullets and setting up their earpieces. Illya gave Napoleon the fancy tool he'd used in Rome to snap the fence links, and Napoleon hung it on his belt. Then, after a quick, light dinner, they were off. 

Gaby parked in the same place as the last two nights, and they hung out, waiting for the first of Napoleon's good times to go—close to midnight. They were all quiet, focused, watching the guards and monitoring them in their heads. Checking for anomalies. Finally, ten minutes till, they all slipped out, notes in hand about timing and where to go. "See you on the other side," Napoleon said, and slipped away.

He looked at his watch when he got to his destination, bouncing on his toes as he timed out the guards. Still on schedule, just like the last two nights. He snuck between the cameras when it was time, and cut the fence in a long thin line. He slipped in and pressed his back against the main building's wall, running the guards' routes in his head like a mantra. The seconds ticked by, and he crept around to Gaby and Illya's entry spot, cutting the fence for them too and beckoning them in.

So far, no hitch.

Together, they snuck across the compound and toward the main building, stopping at a back entrance that Illya had pointed out on the blueprints that was a blind spot to the patrolling guards. Napoleon picked the lock, and they were in.

They immediately separated at the stairwell, Napoleon and Gaby going up and Illya going down. He kept his eyes on Illya's back as they walked away from each other, and squeezed one hand into a fist to keep from calling out and suggesting they all stick together anyway. _We'll see each other soon_.

The upper floor looked just as he remembered it. He led Gaby past all the empty offices, past all the locked doors that stood vigil in the dim light. Petrov's office was ahead, and he picked the lock with no problem. From there, the two of them began a quick but methodical search.

There was some weird shit in Petrov's desk. Napoleon frowned as he ran a flashlight briefly over the documents he found. He hoped Illya wasn't seeing too much of the crazy stuff it seemed like the Soviets were making in those labs.

There was a soft noise of triumph off to his right, and he turned to see Gaby holding up a disk much like the one they had destroyed on that balcony in Rome. She was grinning. "This is it," she said, and passed him the documents she had found with it.

He scanned them quickly. They were in Russian, and they were memos about the potential uprising Waverly had spoken of and the instructions to build the weapon. "Is that the only copy?" he asked, gently taking the disk from her and turning it over in his palm. He wasn't going to get burned on that trick again.

"Yeah." She pointed at one of the lines on a memo he hadn't gotten to. "Only one copy made. For security purposes."

"Their loss." Napoleon handed the disk back to her, and she tucked it safely away. He folded the papers and stuffed them into a pocket, already starting to lead the way back to the stairs. "Hey, Peril? We've found it. Meet us where we first split, okay?"

_"That was quick,"_ Illya said through the ear pieces, his voice low but pleased. _"I will meet you promptly, on the stairs now. Where did you—ngk!"_

The last strange noise was a pained grunt. In his ear, Napoleon heard shouting in Russian: _Who are you? What are you doing here? Who do you work for?_

"Illya!" he shouted, and he and Gaby broke into a run as they started down the stairs back to the main level.

_"Ugh,"_ Illya said, and then he was quiet. After a brief scuffling sound and a hiss of static, Napoleon heard no more through his earpiece. 

Napoleon broke into a faster run, Gaby right on his heels, and together they clattered down the back staircase toward the labs. But there was no sign of Illya in the stairwell. None of the doors to each floor were ajar, and Napoleon looked around wildly, suddenly aflame with desperation and panic. "Illya?" he called as loud as he dared. "Illya!"

Wordlessly, Gaby began to lead him on an abbreviated search of each of the lower floors. It was dank and creepy down there, full of nasty experiments that Napoleon would sooner forget. He didn't focus on them, listening only to the desperate beat of his heart in his ears. Where the fuck was Illya?

Finally, they burst back out into the empty stairwell, and Gaby met Napoleon's eyes with a hesitant, scared look. Napoleon just looked at her for a moment, then slammed his open palm into the railing of the stairs. _"Illya!"_ he shouted, even though he knew nobody would hear.

Illya was gone.

* * *

Minutes passed sluggishly as Napoleon and Gaby took their next steps. Protocol dictated that they leave, that they take their successfully-acquired quarry and get out of there and report back to Waverly. And Gaby prodded Napoleon through it, looking miserable but resolutely dragging them through procedure that she herself had been resisting all week.

Every instinct in Napoleon's body was screaming at him to stay, to keep looking. He kept turning around as Gaby drove away. The guards were still moving back and forth, unaware of Gaby and Napoleon. It was like nothing had happened.

Things blurred when they got back to the hotel and snuck in. They went to the room Illya and Napoleon had been sharing, and Napoleon paced a line into the carpet while Gaby called Waverly. Napoleon could only hear the tinny buzz of their handler's voice on the other end, but the tone was clear—he was worried. Which was a significant improvement from Napoleon's experience with handlers in the past, but wasn't quite good enough to appease him. 

Finally, he went over and snatched the receiver from Gaby. "We need to find him," he said without preamble. "It's coming up on an hour now. Call your people in, we need to do something."

He thought he sounded remarkably calm, considering the circumstances, but Waverly said, _"Calm yourself, Solo. We need to think about this."_

"Call. In. Your people," Napoleon said lowly. "We need to find Illya."

_"You're in Soviet territory,"_ Waverly replied waspishly. _"I don't have any people where you are."_

Napoleon pulled the phone away, almost threw it, and got a hold of himself at the last second. He clamped a hand around the receiver and took a couple deep breaths. Gaby watched him, her gaze heavy on his skin. He brought the phone back to his ear. "Waverly," he said calmly, just a single tremor betraying his tension. "Gaby and I are going to find Illya whether you help us or not. I appreciate that we are currently in unfriendly territory, but I am more than willing to endanger myself and the information we recovered today in the endeavor of getting my partner back. Your assistance would go a long way toward making those things _not _happen. Am I clear?"

He thought he could hear Waverly swallow. _"I'll make some calls,"_ he said finally. _"I have a way to at least empty the compound so you can start a proper search. Give me an hour before you try to return."_ He hung up before Napoleon could get a response out.

As soon as Napoleon put the phone down, Gaby started talking. "What's he going to do? Is he going to help?"

"He's going to clear out the compound for us." Napoleon started pacing again. "He said it would take an hour."

"An _hour_?" Gaby had curled herself into a tight ball, her knees against her chin, every line of her body alive with tension. "Illya could be out of the country by then."

But Napoleon shook his head, kept shaking it. "No. No, they might not take him far." A thought sparked in his head, and he went to the pile of the materials they had used to break in in the first place, the pages of Illya's notes and the maps they had drawn. He found the blueprints he'd conned out of that stupid Soviet and spread them haphazardly across the floor. 

"What are you doing?" Gaby asked, baffled. Her hands tightened around her shins.

"Something. Anything." Napoleon scanned the main building's outline hurriedly, trying to decide where Illya's kidnappers had vanished to. In his head, he had a running countdown of how long it had been since Illya had been taken. 

"Okay, what are you _thinking_?" Gaby asked.

The truth was, Napoleon really wasn't thinking. His brain had a single setting right now: _Illya is gone and I have to find him_. As such, all he could do was move and keep moving, because being in motion made him feel a little less out of control. Just the illusion of doing something productive made the choking fear recede a little bit.

But when she asked, he realized that he did have a goal in mind. "I'm looking for a place for a secret bunker," he said. When she just looked at him, her head tilted and her expression etched into miserable lines, he continued: "Think about it. We got to where Illya was supposed to be in _seconds_. Then we left pretty quickly, but we didn't see any cars that could've been taking him somewhere. And all the guards seemed unconcerned, as if they hadn't been alerted, so they must not have seen any of their friends taking a prisoner somewhere. So where did they go?"

"I don't know, another base?" Gaby sounded unsure, but her eyes were sparking as she followed Napoleon's train of thought. 

"They can't have taken him anywhere. We would have _seen_ them. So there has to be an underground component to this place. Somewhere they could have taken him."

"Genius," Gaby breathed, and she finally unknotted her limbs and slid down onto the floor with him and the maps. Together, they scoured the blueprints until they found a few possible entry-points for underground tunnels. 

It didn't take as long as Napoleon would have liked, and he took up pacing again once they had a solid idea of where they'd go once the coast was clear to go back to the compound. For her part, Gaby set to mechanically disassembling and cleaning their guns. At one point, Napoleon watched her take the disk they'd stolen and shove it into the safe in the wall with such irritated fervor that he was almost cheered for a moment. 

Until he remembered that her irritation at it was due to the fact that they might lose Illya because of this stupid goddamn mission. 

He couldn't even entertain that concept, couldn't think about it. His stomach was in knots, his brain on fire, his limbs sparking with the effort of not running to the car right now.

Finally, _finally_, when his mental clock on Illya's disappearance was at two hours and twenty minutes, Waverly called back. He was late. Napoleon snagged the phone before Gaby could even sit up and snapped, "Are we clear?"

_"You're clear. Be careful."_

Napoleon hung up without saying anything else.

Wordlessly, he and Gaby packed up and went to the car. By the time they pulled up outside the compound, the time since Illya had been taken was almost three hours. It was past 3 A.M. now. Napoleon jumped out of the car before Gaby parked it and led the way down to the gates. 

It was striking, the difference between the compound before and the way it looked now. It was completely empty and silent. The guards were gone, but the lights were still blaringly bright. Gaby and Napoleon exchanged a nervous look and walked right up to the front gate.

Napoleon pulled it open with a horrendous screech of metal, and they both instinctively tensed, waiting for people to come find them. But nobody came. 

The most likely places for a possible underground entrance were all somewhere under the bottom-most lab. There were a few alcoves that seemed to lead nowhere (at least on the blueprints) in multiple different areas down there. So, feeling better for the first time in hours because he was _doing something_, Napoleon led the way inside.

Gaby shuddered as they made their way through the lowest-level lab. "This place is awful," she said softly. One of the lab mice on a shelf above her head was covered in greenish warts. Napoleon couldn't tell if it was breathing. 

"It's pretty bad, yeah," Napoleon agreed. It was about the same as the first time they'd been down here. That didn't make it easier to look at.

They searched every inch of that lab. Napoleon pushed shelves, dug his fingers into the grooves between flooring tiles, leaned his entire weight onto strange spots of wall. Nothing happened. There was nothing there.

Fingers pressed to her temples, Gaby stood motionless in the middle of the lab. Napoleon swore as loudly as he could, picked up a harmless-looking microscope, and threw it at the ground so hard it shattered into three pieces.

Gaby didn't quite flinch, although annoyance flashed across her face. Her eyes were closed. "Wait a moment, Napoleon."

"For _what_?" he snarled, throwing his arms out. "What am I waiting for? Illya is _gone_ and we have _no_ fucking idea where he could be. He has been gone for _over_ three hours. He is either _dead_ or being tortured, and it is absolutely fucking _sickening_ that I have to hope for the latter. Do you hear me? I feel _sick_!"

"Do you think I don't?" Gaby demanded, her eyes flying open, wide and angry. "Do you think you're the only one here who cares about Illya? Do you think I don't know that our best hope right now is that he's being hurt?" She stared at him, flinty and hard. "Who do you think you're talking to? I know you love him, but I do too."

Napoleon swallowed, sheepish in the face of her anger. "I'm sorry," he said lowly, spreading his hands. "I just...all of this…"

"I understand," Gaby said, taking one of his hands and pressing it between both of hers. "That's what I'm _telling_ you. I get it."

"So what am I waiting for?" Napoleon asked.

"I had a thought." Gaby's frustration vanished as soon as it had come and was replaced by a spark of something else—thoughtfulness, maybe, mixed with triumph. "What about the outbuildings?"

Napoleon almost asked, 'What about them?' but stopped himself. He knew exactly where she was going with this. _Under the outbuildings_. "Come on," he said urgently, and tugged her along by the hand that she was holding. "Come on, let's go."

Time stretched. They raced from building to building, tearing through what were essentially sheds full of unprocessed items—wood, canisters of chemicals, everything in between. Finally, they found one that had a ring screwed into one of the floorboards, and Napoleon could feel in his bones that this was it. 

He and Gaby pulled up on it together, and part of the floor came up. The hole below was unlit, but there were roughly-hewn concrete stairs leading down into the dark. Napoleon and Gaby made eye contact over the steps, and simultaneously pulled out guns.

It had been three and a half hours.

The stairs went down _deep_, and the darkness closed around them as they descended. Finally, at the bottom of the steps, a light appeared in the form of a dim row of bare, flickering bulbs lining the ceiling. The hallway in front of them stretched into the dimness, and Napoleon swallowed hard. Every sound echoed down here, even his breath. The walls were concrete and damp, and the entire place smelled like stone and the cold.

There were a few doors in the hall, all of them open like dark, empty mouths. But just one of them, so far away down the hall as to be almost hard to see, was shut tight.

He looked at Gaby, who shifted her grip on her gun to a slightly stronger one and nodded at him, her jaw clenched. 

Together, they started down the hallway, their footsteps loud in the quiet. Or at least, it was quiet, until a ragged, throaty yell reverberated along the hallway. It was Illya's voice.

Napoleon started running, shouting, _"Illya!"_

Immediately, people began shouting, and Russians spilled out of the open doors into the cramped hallway, all of them holding weapons and all of them angry.

Napoleon raised his gun and fired three shots, taking down the first three men in his way, but the rest were on him before he could squeeze off any more. He ducked a fist and came up swinging, driving the heel of his hand into the Russian's chin. He heard the teeth clack, saw the eyes roll back, and when the man fell, Napoleon drove his foot into his ribcage.

Then his own ribs got hit hard, and for a moment as he slammed back against the wall, he thought he'd fucked it up or some freaky shit was going on and he was getting his own hits reciprocated. But then he felt it again, and his apparently-oxygen-starved brain realized someone was smashing his ribs with a baton.

He kicked out instinctively, and caught his attacker's knee, buckling it. When the Russian stumbled, he lunged out and caught him on the back of the skull with his gun, dropping him.

Free for just a few seconds, Napoleon looked around. Gaby was holding her ground, using her small size and superior speed to kick the shit out of her opponents. So Napoleon joined her, and together they ripped through the rest of the Soviet guards in their way. In the process, Napoleon caught two more blows to his chest, and he felt his ribs begin to fracture. It hurt to breathe.

But then he and Gaby reached the closed door, and Napoleon, with one hand pressed flat against his side, kicked it open with Gaby right next to him.

It was dark in the tiny room, and it took Napoleon a very long moment to comprehend what he was looking at. Illya was in the center of the space, hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, which were tied together and looped over a hook from the ceiling. He was suspended a little too high to stand, his feet just barely touching the floor. Napoleon couldn't see him very clearly, because there was a large man standing between them, leaning over his partner. 

Gaby started moving before he did, raising her gun and unceremoniously putting a bullet in shoulder of the man leaning over Illya. He fell back toward them with a cry, and Gaby immediately went to finish handling him. Which left Napoleon to take care of Illya.

He hurried over just as Illya stirred a little, letting out a soft groan.

The relief at seeing him alive did not cancel out the sheer panic that came over Napoleon when he took in Illya right then. Illya's arms were trembling under his own weight. His shirt was open, and there was blood running sluggishly down his chest from a series of slashes under his collarbones. His nose was broken and both of his eyes blackened, one of them swollen almost shut. Blood streaked him from face to feet, and underneath it, Napoleon saw little raised burns all over his torso—marks of a cattle prod.

_God_. Napoleon had known, of course, that if Illya wasn't dead, they'd be beating the shit out of him. But he hadn't expected this amount of damage in under four hours. _I should've been faster_. Fury fought with anguish in his stomach.

Illya raised his head, which looked like it took a lot of effort. His hair was still falling into his face. He cracked open the one eye that wasn't swollen and looked at Napoleon, his gaze hazy and unfocused. "Napoleon?" he croaked, and Napoleon's heart cracked. An expression spread over Illya's face, something like...vindication. "Napoleon," he said again, this time a rough whisper.

"I'm here. I'm here." Napoleon reached up to unhook Illya's wrists, to get him _down_ for Christ's sake, but his cracked ribs stopped him with a stabbing pain in his chest, and he groaned. He couldn't hold that weight with just his arms. Desperate, he stuck his head under Illya's crossed arms and wrapped his arms around Illya's torso, and with a pained grunt, bodily lifted him off the hook.

Together, they collapsed onto the floor, Illya's still-bound hands pressing tightly against Napoleon's back in an embrace. It was uncoordinated, ungainly—Illya ended up partially in Napoleon's lap, but Napoleon didn't care. Illya buried his face in the crook of Napoleon's neck, and Napoleon stuck his nose into Illya's hair. He felt Illya shudder against him, and brought a clumsy hand up to clasp the back of Illya's neck. "Shh, shh," he whispered into Illya's ear. "I got you. It's okay."

He felt Gaby's presence behind him, and her gentle hands brushed against his back as she undid the knots around Illya's wrists. As soon as the rope fell away, Illya clenched the fabric of Napoleon's shirt in his fists, bunching it up as he clung tighter to him. Napoleon swallowed a lump of tears. Had it really been that bad?

Finally, Illya pulled back a little and pressed his forehead against Napoleon's, inhaling deeply. Napoleon let his eyes drift shut. "You okay, Peril?" he asked softly.

He felt Illya nod against him, the slide of skin on skin. "Yes. I'm okay." His voice was unexpectedly strong.

Another quick gunshot rang out, and then suddenly Gaby knelt next to them then, and pressed her hands to the backs of their heads. "We have to leave," she whispered. "More will be coming, and we will be outmatched."

Napoleon nodded and looked at Illya, who had leaned back a little further. "Can you walk?" he asked.

"Yes," Illya said, his eyes a little clearer now—at least, the one that could open at this point. 

Napoleon pressed a quick kiss to the underside of Illya's jaw and awkwardly maneuvered the two of them to standing. Illya leaned on him, but not too heavily. His wounds seemed mostly superficial, not deep and without much bone breakage, which was a good start. 

One more glance around the room told him that Gaby had killed the man who'd been tormenting Illya with a bullet in his head. It was Petrov, he realized with a jolt, the odious man he'd gotten the blueprints from. Napoleon resisted the urge to kick the body. Illya's blood was still in little puddles on the floor.

Napoleon pressed a hand to his ribs and wrapped his other arm around Illya's waist, and together, like a three-legged race contestant, they hobbled out of the bunker. Gaby led the way, both her gun and Napoleon's gun up and steady. Napoleon, watching her, had never been more grateful for somebody in his whole life.

They made it to the surface and out the gates without incident, and Gaby ran ahead to start the car. Napoleon and Illya got there only a few seconds later, and Napoleon helped Illya into the back, laying flat across the seats. Then he climbed into the back with him, pulling Illya's head into his lap. Illya sighed as they settled like that, leaning into Napoleon's warmth.

None of them spoke on the way back to the hotel, but the solid contact with Illya made Napoleon feel right-side-up again.

Gaby stopped at the hotel only to collect their things and sneak out, and as soon as the trunk was loaded, they kept on. When she got back, the first thing she did was toss Napoleon the disk they'd stolen, the entire reason for this whole fucking disaster, like it was a hot potato. For safe-keeping, probably.

"How bad is the bleeding?" she asked when she turned the car back on. "Can you make it a few hours?"

Illya groaned softly, shifting on the seats and Napoleon's lap. "Yes," he said. "I will be fine."

Gaby tossed a look at Napoleon in the rear view as she rounded a corner, clearly asking him the same question. "I'll be okay," he said, shaking his head. "But don't be slow."

They needed a hospital, but they needed to get out of Soviet territory first. It was close to five hours to the border, and it would be full of checkpoints and a whole manner of anything else, but they had to get to Austria before anything could happen. Napoleon watched Budapest recede behind them, and hoped fervently he'd never see it again.

* * *

Gaby drove like a bat out of hell, and they reached the border in under four hours. Illya almost fell asleep a few times, but Napoleon woke him up each time, in case of concussion. They still didn't talk, none of them, as if not talking about what had happened would make it magically go away, or as if the silence between them all was something sacred.

When they hit the border, Gaby circumvented the checkpoints with back roads like it was nothing. Napoleon looked at her inquisitively, but she didn't look back, and he didn't ask.

It was another hour or so of driving before they hit somewhere big enough to have a hospital. When they got there, Gaby pulled up to the emergency entrance, and medics met them at the car. Illya and Napoleon were carted in together, Gaby following closely and snapping at people who told her to stay back and wait.

What followed were long periods of testing and prodding and doctors, and Napoleon and Illya were separated. It ached like a physical pain to be apart from him after the events of the last night, but Napoleon grit his teeth and made himself wait.

Finally, with re-set ribs and bandages, he was released into Illya's room. Illya was laid up in bed, covered in bandages, ice being held against his re-set nose and swollen eye by Gaby, who was leaning over the bed from a bedside chair. With the hospital gown on, Napoleon couldn't even see the injuries that littered his chest, the ones that he'd collected over the hours that Napoleon had _let happen_. The ones that worried him so.

Illya was also asleep. So Napoleon sat opposite Gaby, and held Illya's limp, warm hand. After a moment, Gaby reached across Illya, and Napoleon grabbed her hand as well. And they sat like a little chain, a little circle. The only three people in the world that mattered. Napoleon closed his eyes, feeling peaceful for the first time since the start of this fucking mission. Everything was fine.

* * *

Illya didn't sleep for long. He was fully mobile, allowed to get up and move, but it would hurt, so it was recommended he stay put unless moving was absolutely necessary. He was being kept for observation, just for a bit longer. Then they'd be free to get on a plane home.

Gaby had already called Waverly, the minute they'd hit the hospital. He'd been worried sick, she said, after not hearing for them for hours upon hours. Napoleon found he didn't care very much. They'd be back in Waverly's reach soon enough. 

When Illya did wake up, those bright eyes blinking open and looking around groggily before fixing on Napoleon, he could feel his heart expand. "Hey," he said softly, squeezing Illya's hand.

"Hey, Napoleon." Illya turned his head to the side as if holding it straight and looking at Napoleon simultaneously was simply too much effort. 

"You okay?" Napoleon tilted his head at him. Gaby had stepped out to call Waverly again, to get an ETA on a flight home.

"Yes." Illya hesitated, gathering his thoughts. His eyes were getting clearer by the second. "Had worse," he finally said, shifting and only wincing a little. "Was not that bad, not that long."

Napoleon bit his lip. "But that moment, after...on the floor...I dunno, it seemed bad. You seemed—scared. I was worried."

Illya sucked in a breath that looked a little painful and shook his head, "I was just overwhelmed." When Napoleon was clearly not convinced, he rolled his eyes and added, "It was not that bad, Cowboy. I knew you'd come, and I had many, many answers they needed. They could not risk hurting me much. It was...for information, not pain—efficient, low damage. You know?"

A pause. Napoleon nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know. Okay." He wasn’t fully convinced, but he decided to leave well enough alone—for now. He paused again, cocking his head. "You knew I'd come?"

Absolutely no hesitation from Illya. "Yes. Of course. Is you, is us, is like Rome. I knew you would come."

Before Napoleon could respond, before he could even fully grasp the emotions he had in the face of Illya's strong belief and trust in him, the hospital room's door opened. Gaby stepped in, and immediately cried, "Illya!" at seeing him alert and awake.

Illya turned to her with a grin, and the moment was over. But Napoleon wasn't disappointed. The three of them sat together, Napoleon contentedly silent as Gaby and Illya chattered and Gaby expressed her gratitude for Illya's wellbeing.

The flight back to London was uneventful. Illya had been released from the hospital, and he was cleared as being more or less fine, although he should take it easy. Illya slept on Napoleon's shoulder the whole flight, and Gaby sat on Napoleon's other side, also asleep.

When they landed, Waverly met them at the airport. His dismayed reaction to Illya's bruised face was rather gratifying, and he personally drove them back to the hotel they always stayed at in the city, which was something new.

When they got up to their normal rooms, Waverly looked uncertain. "I'm very...I feel terrible that this happened," he said.

Gaby wordlessly handed him the disk that she and Napoleon had taken. 

"I'm fine, Alexander," Illya said soothingly, even as he sat down on the couch with a grimace. Once again, it struck Napoleon as strange, even intimate, the relationship they had with their handler. He couldn't imagine calling anybody in the CIA by their first name.

"Be that as it may, I still apologize." Waverly handed an envelope to Gaby. "These are plane tickets, wherever you want to go. A week off, on me. You leave tomorrow."

The three of them physically relaxed, a tension immediately and palpably bleeding out of the room. "Thank you," Napoleon said quietly. 

Waverly nodded and turned to the door. "You all do excellent work," he said, with his hand on the door knob. "I am grateful for all of you." He turned the handle, then hesitated for a second and turned back. "Have fun on vacation," he said, his gaze lingering heavily between Illya and Napoleon. Then he made direct eye contact with Napoleon, winked, and took his leave.

Napoleon whipped his head around to look at Gaby. "Did you tell him?" he demanded, even though he knew she didn't.

Her eyes were full of mirth, and she looked like she was barely stopping herself from laughing. "No, he's just smart," she said. "If you'd heard your voice on the phone in Budapest…"

"Yeah, that's fair," Napoleon muttered, the brief flash of panic receding. Gaby seemed unconcerned, so he was too. Waverly didn't care.

"What did he sound like?" Illya asked. His head was tilted back, his eyes closed. 

The amusement receded a little from Gaby's voice when she said, "Beyond panicked. Never heard anything like it." She was still teasing him, but it wasn't all that funny.

"Shut up," Napoleon grumbled. "I was worried."

"No worries, Cowboy," Illya said, lifting his head and opening his eyes. He was smiling a little bit. "I understand."

That night, the three of them decided that they'd go back to Norway, this time to relax. It was a good decision, a safe place. Gaby found an isolated chalet they could rent for the week, all to themselves. Their flight left midmorning, so Gaby went to bed early to catch up on the sleep she'd missed in Hungary.

Illya and Napoleon went to their usual shared room, and Napoleon began to awkwardly dance around him. Illya took a shower while Napoleon lounged on the bed. Once Illya came back, Napoleon went out on the balcony with a drink to give him space. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Illya played chess with himself.

Finally, he heard Illya sigh. Then he heard: "Cowboy, come here."

Feeling caught-out for some reason, he went back in and slid the door closed behind him. "What's up? You okay?"

Illya had checkmated the white king. He looked up when Napoleon came in and smiled. "Why are you hiding?" he asked, but it wasn't an accusation.

"I'm not," Napoleon said, but that wasn't true. And Illya knew it, fixing him with a look. So Napoleon sighed and collapsed in the chair across from Illya, looking at him forlornly. "I'm sorry," he said, reaching out to scoop up a black rook. He ran it between his fingers idly, feeling the ridges run over his calluses. "I'm just worried about you, and I wanted to give you space."

"I told you, I am fine." Illya calmly began to put the chess pieces back into their proper places, although he didn't ask Napoleon for the rook back. 

And the truth was, Illya did seem to be fine. Napoleon knew what the aftershock of particularly bad torture looked like, had seen in the mirror for awhile after Rome. But Illya looked okay, his eyes clear, his posture relaxed. Even the bruises on his face were already receding, with only the bridge of his nose still looking a lurid purple.

But Napoleon hadn't seen Illya's injuries since they'd rescued him. And he was worried.

Illya patiently watched him think, watched Napoleon's gaze track up and down his torso. "Ask, Napoleon," he said quietly.

"What did they do to you?" Napoleon asked immediately. And then, in his head: _Why did you shake so bad when I pulled you out? Were you more scared than you're pretending right now?_

Illya stood up and went over to the bed, undoing the buttons of his shirt as he went. Napoleon followed him like he had a fish hook behind his navel pulling him along. When he was shirtless, Illya turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out and pulling Napoleon forward until he was between Illya's knees. "See?" Illya guided one of Napoleon's hand forward.

Napoleon gently, so gently, ran his fingers over the skin under Illya's left collarbone. This was where most of the blood had been coming from, he realized. There were no other skin-breaking injuries on his body besides his face. And there, just under Illya's clavicle, was a series of grouped slashes. Thirteen of them, most of them vertical and two diagonal.

Tally marks.

He had to swallow the anger that rose up, but Illya looked so calm that it wasn't hard. "Tally marks," he said out loud, tracing them, ghosting his fingers over them. Raised, an angry red, barely starting to scar. 

"Yes." Illya looked down. "Counting the times I refused to tell them who you and Gaby were."

Napoleon frowned. "They knew we were there?"

"They guessed that you, in particular, worked with me. They asked about the man who took the blueprints, which is you." Illya shrugged. “They didn’t directly ask about Gaby, but they asked about my ‘partners.’ Multiple.”

Napoleon tracked his fingers lower, alighting on the first pair of raised, ugly bumps. Little burn marks, not unlike the ones he still had the scars from. Electrical burns. "Cattle prod," he said softly, voicing what he'd guessed earlier. Not a question. 

Illya nodded. "Yes. When I would not tell them what we were there to steal."

"Jesus, Illya." Napoleon pressed his palms flat to Illya's chest, sort of trying to cover the marks. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

Illya grasped his wrists, squeezing gently until Napoleon looked at him. "It's okay. I'm okay." He smiled, just a little. "That is why I'm showing you. It wasn't good, I was hurt, but I am fine now. All of these will heal." He leaned up, very gently knocking their noses together. Napoleon wrapped his arms around the back of his neck, bringing them closer. "This is the proof," Illya breathed against Napoleon's skin. "I am okay."

"Yeah." Napoleon kissed Illya's hairline. "Yeah, you are."

Illya tilted his face up to kiss him, and Napoleon sighed into his mouth, clasping the sides of his face. No matter what, this was the best proof there was. Mouth to mouth. That was the ultimate proof of life.

"Were you scared?" Napoleon asked when they broke apart, his eyes still closed. "You're okay now, but on the floor with me, for a second there...you were shaking."

He heard Illya sigh, felt the expelled air on his lips. Napoleon opened his eyes, watching Illya's face in the dim light of the hotel room lamps. Illya's hands settled on Napoleon's waist, keeping him close. "Yes, I was scared," he said finally, voice low. "I knew you would come, but...when the shouting broke out in the hall, when you and Gaby were close, Petrov was ready to cut his losses." Napoleon heard more than saw him swallow. "You came in just before…"

"Jesus," Napoleon whispered, squeezing the back of Illya's neck. "Shit, why didn't you tell me?"

"It did not matter," Illya said resolutely. "Gaby shot him, and it was all fine...I had to take a moment to recover, there, with you, but that was only a little bit. Then I was fine."

"How are you so...okay?" Napoleon asked, brushing Illya's hair back out of his eyes, a little reverent. He'd been such a mess after Rome. He just couldn't grasp it.

"I knew you would come," Illya said again, shaking his head. "I did not think I would die. I held out hope." He tilted his head and smiled up at Napoleon. "And I was right, was I not?"

Napoleon kissed him feverishly then, like he was on fire and Illya was the only thing that could put him out. God, the _trust_ Illya had in him… Illya pressed back enthusiastically, sliding further back onto the bed and pulling Napoleon after him. Napoleon put everything else out of his mind. What mattered was here, was now, was Illya under his body and under his hands.

Between Napoleon's ribs and Illya's myriad injuries, they had to take it easy that night. But they still woke up entangled, and it felt good. 

As they flew with Gaby back to Norway, as they circled over the snowy airport, Napoleon felt the same deep sense of peace he'd had here settle back over him.

He looked at his two partners, the little team they'd built. Illya was right. It was okay, they were okay, it was all okay. He quickly, surreptitiously, lifted Illya's hand and kissed his knuckles. Illya looked away from the window and smiled at him, then laughed when Gaby made a soft, mocking gag noise.

And Napoleon understood the difference, really _truly_ grasped it in that moment, between his troubles in Rome and Illya's now. He had thought he would die, alone, un-rescued and without anybody to care, in that chair in that basement. But Illya had believed, truly believed with all his energy, that Napoleon and Gaby—his team—would come to get him. And that really did make all the difference, didn't it?

The three of them. Napoleon was overwhelmed with it, with the emotion, of their little trio, their unit. They were a family. 

_This is good_, Napoleon thought as they descended into Norway. Illya smiled brightly at him, illuminated from behind by sun bouncing off of bright snow. _So much better than good_. 

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely wrote this the fastest of the three parts, and with the least editing, but I had fun with it and I hope y'all did too. This was a good time! See you all on the flip side, in another three years when I decide to upload more tens of thousands of words in the span of an hour.


End file.
